


Seven Days of Grace

by MurielJones



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Death, Destiel - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Sam, Hurt Sam Winchester, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-04 22:46:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MurielJones/pseuds/MurielJones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set immediately after S8.  Dean must commit the seven-deadly-sins in order to save Sam who didn't complete the trials;  in the process Dean can retrieve Cas' grace...as a side effect Dean may end up as a demon, and he may or may not be able to be changed back.  Poor Sammy is sick;  and Crowley - stored in the basement -  is looking after him.  Crowley has a little thing for Sammy.  And Kevin might be a little evil...you never know.</p><p>Thanks to my friend A from Detroit for her time, her understanding of the deadly sins, her fascinating interpretation of demons, and helping me to re-re-rewrite the plot into something that works organization (which I lack) and encouragement in this project;  and for helping me decide who to kill.  She is effectively a co-author.  Thanks to Sarah in FoCo for giving me pie recipes and reading everything.  </p><p>Thanks to StarsOverHead for proofing for me...and at the last minute.  </p><p>The only thing I can claim as only mine are the remaining errors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Days of Grace

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, in advance, for reading. It got complicated, it always does. Parts - not all or the plot would make no sense - are stream-of-consciousness...which isn't something I've written before. I find it confusing as a reader, I hope I am less so as a writer.

 

>  [From: The Poisonwood Bible--Barbara Kingsolver]
> 
> Believe this: the mistakes are part of the story. I am born of a man who believed he could tell nothing but the truth, while he set down for all time the Poisonwood Bible.

 

“Dean!” Kevin’s voice, “Dean.”  

 

And Dean Winchester doesn’t know if he can do anymore, save anyone more, help anymore, because he’s about to lose Sammy and Cas, his Cas, his goddamn angel, is gone;  and the angels fell and Cas, damn Castiel, could be anywhere.  So when Kevin eventually—how long had he been calling Dean’s name?  When Kevin eventually yells out that there is someone at the door, it could only be one of two people—one of two people they want to see— one person or an angel they want to see, Charlie or Cas;  and when it’s Cas, Dean has to look away because he’s furious.  Dean Winchester is furious because Cas went off to save the world again, and fucked up, again, and now all the angels have fallen, and what else?  Dean can perhaps blame part of the state of Sam on—angel of the lord—Castiel.  He sure can blame some of it on—prophet of the lord—Kevin. But, mainly, he can blame it on himself, and he is plenty angry, because this time he had assistance hurting Sam.

 

“I need your help.”  

 

It’s the same old Cas looking him straight in the eye, asking him for help when an apology would be in order; when, hell, Dean hitting Cas once, at least once, twice, hard, would be in order.  And Dean jerks his head to the side by way of welcome, and nods his head at Cas by way of acknowledging that Cas needs help.  “And?”

 

“I’m human.”

 

Dean seems genuinely puzzled, and in turn Cas furrows his brow, turns his head at Dean’s confusion.  He is about to repeat himself when Dean speaks.

 

“So?”

 

Cas, still outside, standing with his hands thrust into overcoat pockets, should know what to say, but that’s the problem:  he doesn’t.

 

Kevin closes his mouth and flees the room.  He’s wondering if going to hell for killing all of them - the Winchesters, the angel, their pet (fucking) demon, would be as hard as being a prophet of the lord.

 

“Cas?”

 

“I’m -” Castiel glances up and down his body. “- human.”  He steps inside.

 

“Kinda busy here Cas.”

 

“Sam.”  Cas’ brow furrows, “You did save Sam.” It is almost a question and Dean accepts it as such.

 

“Close the damn door Cas; and no, no one saved Sam.”  Dean doesn’t add: _least of all yourself, because you promised me you would take care of my little brother.  Instead you destroyed heaven_.

 

Cas closes the door.  Dean’s eyes follow him.  

 

“Kevin.” Kevin has surreptitiously slipped away. Dean yells, bellows, “Kevin!”

 

Cas notices the unanswered question.  “Is he?”

 

“Sam is in the dungeon with Crowley.”  Annoyance cuts across Dean’s features, holding his temper has never been his strong point, and he can’t claim it is getting better now.  “Kevin!”

 

Kevin resigns himself to showing up at the beck and call of the mighty Dean Winchester.  Kevin Tran isn’t a mathlete for nothing.  He could have a plan.  Cas first - he’s human. Then Sam - he’s weak. Then Crowley - he’s in the devil’s trap. Dean will be isolated by then, he’ll figure out Dean.  But for now, he is dependent on them, so he might as well tell them what he knows about saving Sam.   After all, Kevin Tran isn’t a killer, he’s a mathlete hoping to go to MIT.

 

Kevin shows back up, bottle of 20-year-old in hand - which Dean deftly removes and sets on a table.  

 

“Tell Cas what you told me.”

 

Kevin looks longingly at the scotch and then back at Dean.  

 

“You’re not going to throw holy-water on him?”  Kevin looks between Cas and Dean clearly, and rationally, nervous.

 

Dean raises both eyebrows, shows off a lopsided smile; predatory.

 

“I’ve translated more of the demon tablet. If we don’t stop the time progression of the trials Sam will die.  But I think we can save Sam.”  He looks at Cas. “An angel has to kill _the demon, the one from the trials,_ before _the demon_ becomes fully human, the trials will be stopped, Crowley won’t be saved.” - Kevin can’t find a way to feel badly about that – “and Sam will walk away, well probably not quite walk away, but he’ll live.”  As an afterthought Kevin adds, “It has to be done in less than seven days of the moment when the trials were interrupted.”

 

“Don’t say ‘that won’t be a problem’ Cas.  Every angel out there is ready to kill you, and me and Sam - and probably Kevin.”  Dean does know Castiel by now, and Cas doesn’t know his own limitations.

 

“I can become an angel again.”

 

“Is this another one of your heaven and earth schemes?  Because, in case you hadn’t noticed, the last one didn’t work, and neither did the previous one.”

 

Cas’ human form flinches back, blinking.  “You resent me?”

 

“No, Cas, I - it just has to work, Cas. This is for Sammy.”

 

Dean drinks and passes Kevin the bottle.

 

“It doesn’t come without risk Dean, but, done correctly, it will work.”

 

“You sure this time?”

 

“Do you resent me?”

 

“Just tell me, dammit, Cas.”

 

“You have to become a demon – intentionally - any human could become a demon; although I think very few would.  I believe you will for Sam.”  Cas pauses, continues after seeing no reaction from Dean, “You will need to commit the seven deadly sins, one a day for week, and you will become a demon.  When you complete the final sin, an angel’s grace will be retrieved, and you will become,” Cas seems to realize the gravity of what he has asked of Dean and pauses, searching for any sign of emotion from him, “you will become a demon.”

 

Dean looks down, but raises his eyes to Cas. “Better than breaking into heaven.”  He considers for a moment. “And if I get it wrong, then Sammy dies, and I’m a demon? Or Sammy finishes – we decided he would finish if we can’t get out of this one – Sammy finishes the trials and he sends me to hell forever?”

 

Cas nods. “Or you fail, and Sam dies for no reason.  You wouldn’t be a demon forged in hell, being transformed by my grace you may be bound to me, we don’t know what will happen to you Dean.”

 

Dean nods a short nod.  “And if this works, I can be saved?  Human again?”

 

No answer.

 

“Cas?”  

 

Cas is looking away. “I don’t know.  You will be a demon by your own choosing.  You may not be able to choose to be human again.”

 

Cas is still standing just inside the entrance way.

 

“Castiel, time, she is a-wastin’.”  Dean grabs the impala keys, the bottle from Kevin, pushes past Cas and to the door.  Over his shoulder he calls out, “Hey, Kev, tell Sammy I’ll call him and explain later.”  Adding, “And don’t you tell him.”  As usual to the point Dean adds:  “Cas, you’re coming.”

 

“We’re going to drop kick this ball through the goal posts of life,” Castiel volunteers.

 

“Don’t try Cas.”  Dean opens the passenger door and lets Castiel in.

 

**Time:  3:39pm**

 

> _[From:  Pr_ _airyerth:  A Deep Map, William Least Heat-Moon]_ _Sundown: I am standing on Ronigher Hill, and I am trying to see myself as if atop a giant map of the United States.  If you draw two lines from the metropolitan corners of America, one from New York City southwest to San Diego and another from Miami northwest to Seattle, the intersection would fall a few miles from my position._

 

“What was it that you confessed?”  I pause, not for dramatic effect, but because he doesn’t appear to hear me.   “Sam?”  I raise an eyebrow, quietly out of place on my shackled soul.   _That must be a bitch-face_. I consider the slightly sulky look unfortunate on a man of, how old?  Twenty-nine?  Thirty?  Though the expression is only marginally out of places on Sam’s pretty face, I should find a time to let Sam know.  I am desperately bored without a planet to torment. “Moose, we have to talk about something.”  

 

 _Good to see you have your personality back,_ he snips back at me.  I could say the same for him, but I don’t.  Another bitch face. Seems Chuck was right: Moose can be quite expressive. Sam falters at the door, turns his face to me, shakes his head, walks cautiously out, leaves the door slightly ajar behind.   -  I just saw Sam Winchester walk cautiously. -

 

The dungeon is, given the restraints, attractively done, minimalist, functional, elegant. I would appreciate it more if I wasn’t tethered. Still, chains have their upsides—I should mention that to Sam later.  It is, however, a challenge to hear anything outside these walls; Sam and that poor, poor boy Kevin are having a quiet chat upstairs - no, at the top of the stairs.  I can’t blame Kevin for what he has to say about me.

 

“Kevin, I know. This wasn’t our first choice.”

 

“Choice? ”  

 

Kevin squeals, again, I can’t fault him for the squeal either, I was a little harsh.  Sam says something indecipherable punctuated by a cough.  I hear him, Kevin, say:  “I am going to kill him.” The last time he said that it was laughable and implausible— and now it is, horribly, a possibility to be taken into account.  Come on, Moose - you need to take this into account. Since when do I need a Winchester to protect me—oh, wait; since they tried to turn me human. Nice one, boys.  I do see their point, though. It may have been a good idea to stop me. It may be a brilliant idea to have lock all of us in hell. Right now, I’m not feeling it though.

 

I hear Sam. Short of breath from the little trot up the stairs? I hear him:   _We need food Kevin, and_ \-- Then something indecipherable from Kevin.  Sam concludes in agreement with Kevin. I have my reservations as to the unknown agreement, though I believe Sam agreed not leave me unattended again, and did he sound relieved?  I raise my eyebrows; I would touch my fingers together, but again, chains can really hold one back.  Downside, I believe Sam agreed to lunch for one. Upside, he may share it with me.  It’s a possibility that makes me smile.

 

It takes more than a few minutes for the Moose to re-appear;  and are those unsteady steps on the stairs?  I’m pleased that he has eventually made it down here. I am hungry.  Or maybe he is going to eat what might be a roast beef sandwich in front of me. I may deserve that. Alternately, maybe Moose is a kindly dungeon keeper—I could see him that way.  He pauses at the door, sandwich in one hand, other on the frame, features unusually sharp. He squints into the dim room.

 

“Just the two of us, Moose.”  Not as smooth as I had imagined.  However, it has the desired effect. He looks towards me.  He walks over to me, and again, he is a bit cautious, marginally too soon on when pushes the plate out in front of him, hesitant maybe, and something is off with Sam Winchester—and this could be my lucky day.  Not all of it, though; some of this has already been not so lucky.   I admonish myself to keep quiet and take the sandwich with a demon-cuffed hand.  “Nothing for you Moose?”  Maybe I shouldn’t have asked.  Sam Winchester shakes his pretty head.  “Are you feeling alright? Moose?”  That sounded sarcastic, I have to write that one off on lack of practice on being supportive; it was a sincerely caring question.

 

He has stood up and wandered not too far from my little circle with his new, slower steps.  He looks abruptly over _:  I’m dying Crowley_.

 

It seems inappropriately intimate, but if he is going to die in my arms, we may as well get to know each other.   I look at the devil’s trap still holding me rather firmly in place and realize that if Dean and Cas’ plan works—and distressingly they sometimes do; and yes I overhead that, Dean and Cas should learn to keep their voices down—it will be me who does the dying, not Sam Winchester.  Maybe we could still get to know each other; may make dying more pleasant.

 

“Not just a little hungry, Moose?”  That was better, sounded attentive.  Moose wraps his arms around himself.  “You have to eat something, can’t die before big brother Dean,” I emphasize that word, _brother_ , “gets back. He really needs to save you,” pause for dramatic effect, “again.”   I look at the ceiling; this is going to be a long seven days.  “Poker, Moose?  Play cards with the Devil?  Honeymoon Bridge?”  He has remained rooted on the spot. “Monopoly?”  The look on his face is neither threatening nor angry. I might be able to build on this.

 

 _The first time_ , he tells me, and I get hopeful this might be something interesting, although anything to do with Sammy Winchester can be interesting _.  The first time Dean saved me, I was just a baby—a cursed baby_.   _Dean carried me out of the house that night. Nobody,’_ he adds (Is that sadness in voice?) accompanied by an adorable shake of his head, _told me it was Dean that saved me._ Sam looks up the ceiling, feet glued on his spot.   _The next time Dean saved me_ , he says, _was the night that Jess died_. He glances towards me again with what should be a look of anger, but is just more of that Sam sorrow.  He continues:   _Dean dragged me out of our burning apartment_ ; _I could only scream for her_.  A bitch face again. _He ran in to save me_.

 

“One shouldn’t run into burning buildings,” I point out.  Sam looks over - close to, not at, me - close.

 

 _Dean shouldn’t have run into that building_.  Just like that, Sammy Winchester wants to die. The only reason he had to live was darling little Jess?  What of his true love, his big brother Dean?  When Sam Winchester loves, he loves deeply - which could work for me, hopefully.   _No, I don’t love Dean that way_ , he snaps. Maybe he does still have that psychic thing?  But not love Dean:  Sam was willing, only hours ago, to give up the world to be with Dean.  That has made itself my problem.  

 

 _You done, Crowley?_  he asks me.   

 

You’re right Chuck, our Sammy  Winchester certainly can be a bitch.

 

Is he looking at the sandwich?  I look between him and my lunch, and down at the restraints.  I demonstrate my problem with an awkward tug-and-nip-at-the-sandwich. It was easier to bite Sam, a move I wish I had saved for friendlier circumstances.  He distinctly pauses in his movement - catching his balance on dry ground?  He isn’t talking about the sandwich?   

 

 _When the Holts’ house in Salvation burned -_ he seems determined to tell this damn story. I should check with Chuck; we may be able to save Sammy the trouble, though I am interested to hear Moose’s own thoughts - _he wouldn’t let me go back in_. And his words are angry. That’s my boy Moose. That’s the Sam I know, the one by whom I could enjoy being chained. Come to think of it I might not be fully able to master appropriate.  

 

 _He wouldn’t let me stop the whole thing_. Anger suits him. _He saved me instead of stopping_ …  Sam falters mid-sentence.  I smirk, Sammy definitely has some _feelings_ for Big Brother Dean; Moose doesn’t notice my smirk, I’m becoming concerned concerned.  

 

“Dean went to hell to save me.”

 

Moose has his back turned toward me and my problematic sandwich;  and now, and he takes his sweet time, he gets to his point, and his point is perfectly true.   _I know,_ he says finally, _Dean is out there doing something stupid to save me.  That’s the only reason he would go._

The sandwich thing is proving a perfect frustration for me. “Moose?” I ask. “Could you maybe undo just one hand? Just the collar?”  Though I rather like to wear a collar for Sam, but one must be practical.

 

“Why the hell would I do that, Crowley?”

 

He is standing looking away from me.  He isn’t angry anymore.

 

“I’m too tired to be angry, Crowley.”

 

Maybe he does have that psychic thing going.  I am about to take a bite of the damn thing as best I can—and Kevin makes good sandwich; I found this out about Kevin when he was in my care—but I bite my tongue instead. Sam is looking directly past me. Our little Sammy can’t see.

 

 

> _[From: Robert Frost:  Acquainted with the night.]   I am one who has been acquainted with the night._

  **Time:  6:27pm**

**Sam:**  Dean?

 **Sam:**  Dean where the hell are you?

 **Sam:**  Bazaar?

 **Sam:**  Cas said what?

 **Sam:**  Dean, we know the time. The clocks in the Bat Cave all stopped.

 **Sam:**  No Dean, there aren’t any down here.  

 **Sam:**  No Dean, I can’t leave Crowley.

 **Sam:**  You call Kevin.

 **Sam:**  No, Dean, all I mean is that you could have asked me.  

 

_He hangs up.  He isn’t nearly angry enough. Our little Sammy doesn’t know the whole plan._

 

> _[from:  KJV]  Isaiah 40:  6-7 6The voice said, Cry. And he said, What shall I cry? All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field: 7The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: because the spirit of the Lord bloweth upon it: surely the people is grass.  _
> 
>  
> 
> _[from:  Mapquest] Driving directions, Lebanon, KS / Bazaar, KS Suggested Routes US-81 S 209.83 miles 3 hrs 36 mins  /  3 hrs 36 mins based on current traffic US-24 208.36 miles 3 hrs 58 mins  /  3 hrs 47 mins based on current traffic Or you can adjust your route by Dragging the Route Line._

**Time:  6:29**

“Start out going west on School Ave toward Main St. 0.3 mi Turn left onto Elm St/US-281 Continue to follow US-281. US-281 is just past Chestnut St MIDWAY COOP is on the left If you are on 140 Rd and reach AA Rd you've gone about 0.9 miles too far 2.0 mi Stay straight to go onto KS-181 19.2 mi Turn left onto US-24/KS-9/State St/Morgan St. Continue to follow US-24 If you reach Hadley St you've gone a little too far50.9 mi Merge onto US-81 S toward Salina If you reach County Road 787 you've gone about 1.0 mile too far 69.5 mi.”

 

Dean’s hands tighten on the steering wheel.

 

“Take the US-56/US-81-BR exit, EXIT 60, toward McPherson/Marion 0.2 mi Turn left onto US-56 E/US-81-BR N/E Kansas Ave. Continue to follow US-56 E 36.2 mi US-56 E becomes KS-150 E16.6 mi Turn left onto US-50 US-50 is 0.6 miles past K Rd If you are on 200th Rd and reach Camp Wood Rd you've gone about 0.3 miles too far 1.0 mi Take the 1st right onto Lake Rd/Main St/210th Rd. Continue to follow Lake Rd.”

 

His knuckles twist on the wheel; I’ve seen him do this before.

 

“If you reach LP Rd you've gone about 0.5 miles too far 5.8 mi Lake Rd becomes Main St. 0.4 mi Turn right onto N Walnut St/KS-177/Walnut St. Continue to follow KS-177. 7.3 mi KS-177 is 0.1 miles past Broadway St.”

 

His knuckles whiten.  

 

“Chase County Cottonwood Falls is on the right If you reach the end of Main St you've gone a little too far 7.3 mi Turn left onto Sharps Creek Rd (Portions unpaved)  0.2 mi Welcome to BAZAAR, KS If you reach Mill Ave you've gone about 0.2 miles too far.”  

 

“Shuddup Cas.”

 

“Dean,” firmly, “My phone said -"

 

“Cas, I know where I’m going.”

 

We drive in silence; I’m not sure he knows where he is going.

 

“I knew Isaiah - ”

 

“Shuddup Cas.”

 

**Time:  6:29 pm**

 

The small town of Bazaar stands in the last native stand of American tall grass prairie, something I would tell Dean if he wasn’t so distracted.  

An angel and a hunter walk into a diner, and things get complicated.  

It’s the end of the day, close to the end of the first day. Dean has seven days to do these trials, one a day;  that gives us barely enough time to consummate this plan, according to The Prophet. I don’t think he was listening to Kevin - listening to Kevin is dangerous - Kevin  should  have mentioned that succeeding at the demon trials would kill Sam. Then again, there are risks involved in not listening to Kevin. He did mention the angel trials did not include killing nephilim or mutilating a cupid.

“Dean, I’m hungry.”  We’ve been arguing about where to stop, whether to stop, for the last three hours, since we left Lebanon.

We walk in, he holds the door open for me - I don’t remember him doing this before, but it seems I can’t ask about everything.  The diner, _the_ diner; if there were a diner in heaven it would be this one. Actually there is.  “In heaven -” He gives me a sharp look.

We seat ourselves.  I look around for a waitress.  I pick up a menu.  Dean doesn’t.  He looks at his hands, set firmly on the table.  He wants to keep going.  He said so.

“Dammit, Cas.”

The waitress appears. “I’ll have a cheeseburger with extra onions, and so will he.”  The waitress, Flo, looks at Dean questioningly.  He doesn’t reply, so I do. “It’s what he always eats.”

She seems to accept it.

Dean throws up his hands.  

“It’s what you always eat.”  I lean forward as I remind him.

“What are you going to do next?  Order me pie?”  

That’s the most his spoken on this trip other than  his phone call to Sam.  “Two slices of apple pie.”  Flo turns from her position across the diner by the kitchen.  “Now.”  My voice is firm, I believe I was clear.

 

 

> [from my (extensive) correspondence with S]
> 
> \--Ah, gotcha! I like it... Reminds me of that scarecrow episode from the first (or possibly second?) season!  
>  So, this isn't just an "apple pie" apple pie- this is a sour cream apple pie with 2 lbs of fresh granny smith apples, 1/4 cup of flour, 3/4 cup of sugar, and a dash of salt, whipped up with an egg, 1cup of sour cream, and 2 whole teaspoons of pure vanilla extract. It's surrounded not only by a rich, buttery deep dish crust, but also by a layer of streusel made of 1/3c of flour, 1/4c each of brown and white sugar, 2.5tsp of cinnamon, 3/4c of chopped walnuts , and 6tbsp chilled unsalted butter mixed together and crumbled over the top. It's all baked at 350 degrees for 15-20 minutes until the filling is bubbly and the crust is golden. :)  
>   hope that sounds tasty enough to sin over!  
>  Good luck!

 

* * *

_Sammy?  Cottonwoods .  You liked trees.  Bazaar, Emporium, Clay City, Chase.  Kansas. I wish Cas would shut up.  Silence. Sammy!  Oh, shit.  Sammy.  Too cold.  I wish Cas would shut up.  Where the hell ?  How did Cas get us so lost, yeah, I know angels don’t use maps; why did I believe him?  There isn’t enough time for this, Cas knows that, he’s right, he’s not cut out for being human, he’s hungry—that’s all he can think about, hungry.  Sammy was hungry his entire damn life and he never complained, except for Cobb salads and latte mocha whatevers and having to eat burgers, and eating those damn bean burritos, and Lucky Charms; he hated Spaghetti-os.  He looks tired.  He just destroyed heaven, he should look tired—by accident, that was a mistake—Cas isn’t ok.  He needs this.  Sammy is nearly dead because of me. He was right, Tessa was right, Death was right, what’s dead should stay dead—should have stayed dead._

Cas?

_He fidgets, he touches things, the light suits him, takes off some of the age he acquired.  Fuck no. God, I am so sick.  So dinner it is for Cas.  Shut up Cas.  Sammy and I, we used to sit out on the Impala on nights like this and drink beer, that’s when Sam still could…_

Yes, we are stopping at the damn diner Cas.

_Sammy and I used to stop at diners._

_He looks too worried for a man about to eat dinner.  Jo? Oh, fuck, Jo and Ellen and, and Bobby—dammit Bobby where are you?  I was wrong; it was you I should have trusted.  I couldn’t have, can’t—sorry Sammy—I can’t trust Sam.  Cas fucks up, Sammy says to trust Cas “because he’s Cas.”  I don’t know, it’s the best hope we’ve got, the only hope Sammy has got.  Sammy should be everything—not the time I’m going to start letting him down, not when this is my fault._

_The bell sounds.  Why do all damn diners have bells?  They all look the same.  “Seat yourself.”  I don’t want to eat. This feels like, you would have known what this feels like Sammy; you knew how it felt to get ready for hell.  I, Cas’ eyes are so lost, did he just order for me? And now he’s telling me what?  Now he wants me to eat pie?  He has to complain about being human, I’m going to be a fucking demon, I’m so sorry, Sam.  I should have said goodbye to him, I don’t think I can do this this.  I don’t know how - Sammy I’m so sorry._

_First, since when the hell does one eat the pie first?  Cas is going to drop the damn thing before it gets to his mouth.  Hesitates, his eyes look bluer over the pie, and the cream, does Cas even like cream?  Since when does Cas like cream?  My stomach turns, my throat tastes bitter, one week to hell - or no Sammy.  There are days when I could live with no Sammy.  How the hell did he?  This one’s all on me.  I’m so fucking sorry Jo, Ellen, Bobby, Dad - why should you trust me?  Why did I trust Sammy?_

_Cold, sweet, melting, touch my lower lip drops of its own choosing.  What the… Cas is feeding me, in a fucking diner, in fucking Kansas._

“You have to eat Dean.”

_Cream, slow on the roof of my mouth, cinnamon, cloves, is that cloves, no?  Just cream.  Another nudge, apple, crisp, warm, sticky and Cas is pushing it into my mouth, pushy?  Maybe being human does work for him.  More?  Dammit Cas could you at least give me time to chew?  The cream slides down too easily, leaves a track of slime for the apple, and the taste of butter;  melted on my lips; I must have opened my mouth.  I open my eyes to look at Cas, he looks sincere, worried, worried about me, I should stop him.  My tongue takes the butter, the flake, the almost edge of an almost itch; I lick it in, I curl it in, I need this.  I want Cas to do this for me, its so much easier to let Cas do this for me._

_Slight taste of burn, its good with the cream.  I swallow again, Cas was right, I can eat more now.  My throat opens, there isn’t any more pain.  The tip of my tongue tastes my lips, cinnamon, wet, cold, waiting for warm, waiting for more--Cas give it to me.  I haven’t been fed by anyone since my mother, and, oh, Lisa.  More pie, does Cas have to be so insistent?  I want to taste this stuff, this is the best goddamn pie in Kansas, I should tell Cas that but then I would have to stop eating.  Crap, more, and he is pushing harder, and I want to try to open wider, he can slide it easy, the taste of metal, fork on my teeth, syrup, spice, slight crunch of, what was that, sticks to the top of my palate and I almost choke, and I swallow it down, and Cas is wiping my mouth._

“Sorry Dean.”

 

_It is so much easier to just let him do this.  But I want..._

_My fingers skim into the cream, soft soft, silk, and it drips slightly and Cas is watching and I suck it in, because the longer it takes, the harder it gets, and there are chips, chunks, flakes on my fingers that I want first, and I find the best way is to take them with my teeth and bite them, one at a time, they must be some kind of nut, Sammy liked nuts, but I curl my lower lip under my teeth, little grains of sand on my lower lip.  This would go so well with brandy, the men of letters have brandy, what can I say, I have refined my tastes.  Did Cas just order brandy? in a diner? in Kansas?  Either I love Cas or diners or Kansas or both or all three._

_It burns my mouth, my throat burns, is that Cas holding it for me?_

  _“Cas?  No, Cas.”_

 

_Cas holding it to my lips.  Oh God dammit, he should only do that when, oh sweet shit, Cas, I’m going to hell._

_“I don’t want to, not like this Cas.”   I lick the cream from between his fingers, and the nuts, walnuts—men of letters and everything._

_“Shush, Dean, you need it, you have to want it.”_

_When my fingers are in the pie the cream is soft, and under it there is something that I need to suck off my fingers; push my tongue in?  The pie, so just melting, so sweet sweet sweet, so clean._

_“That’s it.”_

_Cas’ voice._

“That’s right Dean.”

_He still has the brandy but one of his hands is behind my head.  I hear him set the glass down, he he slicks his fingers with soft apple and cream, he lifts his fingers to my mouth for me, my tongue finds its way around, in, burrow, cold-slick, warm-sticky, hot, and hard pieces, and I can push them around, capture them, draw them in, one at a time, slick, sticky hard, hot, and wait  for them to melt to spread, to slide into me, and warm, all the way down, burn, bitter-sweet-full tired and warm._

“That’s good Dean.”

_Cas?  My tongue runs onto the slightly warmed over smooth last of the liquid sweet sweet sweet cream._

“We’re done Dean, you’re done, you did well.”

 

_And he is somehow washing my face, and my hands, and the cream, and it’s all still warm._

“You did well Dean.  You need to sleep.”

 

_Cas will take me someplace safe, this is Cas, Cas always comes through; Cas always knows what I need._

**_Time:  8-59 pm_ **


End file.
